So Be It
by Missmishka
Summary: **SPOILERS FOR 2x08"Nebraska thru the season 2 finale** Daryl's thoughts in the episodes.  Rated for language.  A bitter piece for our man. 4/? Uploaded
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Before you read this, be prepared for a bitter pill. These characters are retreating to their dark places and this is not a scene in which they find their way back to the light. I still see them doing that, together, but not in this ficlet.

_**So Be It, by MissMishka**_

DISCLAIMER: The usual warnings, I claim no ownership of these characters, they are simply borrowed with love and adoration from the original creators to have their stories embellished on a little more than the show may do. Not for any profit.

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><p>He finds her in the Winnebago, as he expected he would.<p>

She doesn't react to his opening the door or stepping inside and he stands there for a moment, watching her stare out the window. His tongue twitches inside his mouth, seeking the right words to say, some story to tell her to give her comfort at this, which must be one of the hardest moments in her life.

Every thought in his head sounds like bullshit, though, so he says nothing.

Her posture is closed and standoffish, one that he himself had spent years perfecting so he's not put off by it despite the way she had rejected his concern moments ago.

His arms still hurt with the way she had torn from them and he still felt that kick in the gut at how she had looked at him in the second before she turned to walk away. Her eyes had been so wounded and he had no idea if she blamed him for this injury or not.

He didn't know what to do if she did.

He eyes the seat across from her at the table, but it's too close. He feels he'd be invading her space and moment to sit there, so he opts for the counter instead.

The cupboards make it an uncomfortable perch, forcing him to bend forward under them to get his ass on the surface, but he does it without word or complaint.

Being with her, near her, is all that matters.

She looks at him then, as he settles. He can see that she's waiting for the words, the useless platitudes people offer in times of grief and loss.

He also sees the rejection within her, the challenge for him to dare utter a single 'I'm sorry' for her to shoot down in the fury of her feelings.

He says nothing and after a moment, she turns back to the window and ignores him.

Daryl bites at the inside of his mouth as he watches her. He wonders how long she'll go on like this and how much of it he'll be able to take.

She's a woman. She should be saying _something_ soon seeing that he was offering himself as an audience for her to air her thoughts.

He needs her to say something. To give him some idea what's happening in her head so he can start to sort out what the hell is going on in his own.

All he gets, though, is the back of her as she stays unmoving and staring out at nothing.

He feels the passage of time as he stares at her, picking at the grit under his fingernails and willing her to move or speak or show some sign of life.

His mind begins to function independently at her refusal to react.

He remembers his earlier anger at her for suggesting that they give up the search. Remembers how he'd hated the idea of a mother giving up on her child like that, especially after all he'd done to find Sophia.

He thinks about their exchange in the clearing. His foolish words of hope and feelings.

Merle was laughing his ass off at him and it was deserved.

Daryl had allowed himself to care for these people. To imagine himself a part of this group.

All he'd been doing was chasing figments.

That little girl had been locked in the barn all along and Merle howled with malicious glee at that bitter reality.

Daryl kicks and berates himself in the prolonging silence. Wondering what the hell good he'd actually done in all of this. What purpose it had served to get the bullet grazing his head and the stitches pulling at his side for a damned doll.

Shane had been right and that was a damned kick in the teeth.

He didn't know how long they stayed there like that, he staring wordlessly at her and she staring out the damned window.

The quiet grated on his already frayed nerves, but he wasn't about to leave her alone.

He was grateful to Lori when she came to knock on the door, but Carol didn't even flinch at the sound.

The other woman seems as lost for words at Carol's icy exterior as he was and that eases him some as he watches Lori falter for something to say as she steps into the camper.

She looks to him, as if he can give her some kind of insight in how to deal with the grieving mother, but his fidgeting hands clearly convey the nothing he's got to share.

"They're ready," she says, not looking at either of them as she makes the statement.

He watches the words reach through the barrier surrounding Carol and hopes for some magic to happen, but the woman just shakes her head in rejection.

"Come on," Lori urges, shifting restlessly in the doorway as she stares at the other woman.

"Why?" Carol asks, head still shaking in refusal.

"Cause that's your little girl," he replies, struck by idea that she would reject this goodbye.

Her eyes rise to meet his and he gets a real kick in the teeth when he reads the dismissal there.

"That's not my little girl," she refutes. "It's some other….thing."

He wants to argue. For the first time, he understands where the others had come from at the quarry in demanding a burial for the dead from their group.

_It_ **had been** Sophia and for better or worse, they had found the girl and her remains deserved a proper burial and Carol needed to see them laid to rest. _He_ needed to see Sophia laid to rest.

Something of his disbelief must of shone in his eyes because she turns away, severing their contact, to go back to staring out that fucking window.

"My Sophia was alone in the woods. All this time, I thought…," he knows what she had thought because he had encouraged those thoughts. "She didn't cry herself to sleep. She didn't go hungry. She didn't try to find her way back. Sophia died a long time ago."

She seems at peace with that.

Like her girl's in a better place now.

Like the events of the day didn't even fucking matter.

Like Daryl's guts shouldn't be in a fucking twist at having seen Sophia turned to a Walker.

He feels Lori's gaze touch upon him, sympathetic and maybe fucking pitying him because _she_ seems to understand the gravity of the situation even if it's lost on Carol.

The other woman leaves and he keeps his eyes on Carol. Glaring at her, willing her to turn and face him and fucking talk to him. Help him understand .

But she doesn't.

She keeps her gaze on the outside of the window that he would have loved to smash and he realizes he's on his own.

He can't believe he'd allowed himself to think it might be any different.

Merle was his only kin and his brother was gone.

Carol felt no connection to him. He had been a fool to think that she cared.

Fooled by gentle hands and an awkward kiss to his temple. Fooled by big, blue eyes that watched him and soft lips that husked bullshit kindness. Feeding him false praise of being as good a man as Rick or Shane.

She couldn't stand to lose him too, yet here she was, pushing him away quicker than he could blink.

_So be it._

He grits his teeth, sets his jaw, grasps his shotgun and pushes from the countertop.

He gives her one last glance, one more chance to turn to him as she had been doing.

She stares out the window.

_So fucking be it._

He moves from the RV with a stomp in his stride, blaming the dust he stirs for putting grit in his eyes and making them water, despite the fact that he'd teared up before leaving the Winnebago.

_To hell with fickle females. _

He had a little girl to see laid to rest and a dream to say goodbye to.


	2. Chapter 2

For Alamo Girl, cause you wanted the 'what if' he saw...

And, yeah, I posted part 1 as complete and I thought my muses had said their piece, but lo and behold, there is more. And I will use this series to follow the progress of Daryl through his relations primarily with Carol as the second half of the season has it's way with the characters and takes them in directions slightly different and much darker than I had originally envisioned.

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><p>Daryl wasn't sure why he gathered the sticks, but picking the pieces from the forest floor gave him something to focus on.<p>

He hears the snap of twigs nearby and snaps to attention, swinging his crossbow up to rest against his shoulder and staring down the site to line up the potential threat for elimination.

He frowns upon seeing Carol, blinks the grit from his eyes and finds it to still be her, walking through the woods toward him. His eyes flick toward the path she's leaving behind and he knows with a lurch in his gut where she'd been.

He'd deliberately avoided going in that direction when he decided to gather these twigs. He hadn't wanted to remember their moment their earlier or to see that stupid flower.

He licks his lips, bites at the inside of his cheek and slowly lowers the bow, not knowing what to say to her, but needing to say something.

As his mouth opens to call her name, she turns to the right, moving away from him out into the open near the barn.

His frown deepens as his narrowing eyes stare at the place she had been.

After a moment he hears Shane speak her name and he tenses, moving quietly over debris until he's in a position to see through the leaves into the clearing.

He watches the other man touch her, shepherding her like a lost and wondering lamb until she sits for him at the water pump.

His jaw twists and locks at the sight of Shane rinsing the dirt from her.

He sees red and it's more than the smears of blood that he can see on her arms before Shane wipes them away.

Shane is speaking, but Daryl doesn't know or care what the man says. He watches Carol's lips move in response to the other man's words and that's more than enough for him.

Daryl tries to hold her back from the sight of Sophia slain on the ground, tries to hold and comfort her in that moment and she pulls from him as if he were a hound from hell. Shane decides to fondle her hands and she's docile and compliant as can be at that contact.

Daryl sits with her in the damned Winnebago, staring helplessly at her back for over an hour while the graves are being dug and she only says so much as 'Boo' to him when he tries to get her to attend Sophia's burial. This jerk yammers about whatever and she responds to him.

She fucking _looks _at Shane, watching him as he runs the water over her hand and rubs at her flesh, but Daryl she gave no more than a flicker of acknowledgement to.

Not about to subject himself to any more misery, he scoops up the sticks he'd dropped upon hearing her approach and he stomps away, not caring if they heard him on the other side of the trees.

No one called out at the noise or followed and he feels the enamel on his teeth grit away at the way his jaw flexes at the knowledge that he clearly hadn't disturbed their tender fucking moment.

He walks a ways, breaking into the open and cutting a path to the old homestead on the property.

The old stone chimney is about all that remains of what had stood in this place and he settles against it gladly. The place is isolated, quiet and out of sight of the current farmhouse and the group's camp.

He likes it here.

Its peacefulness hadn't been tainted by the slaughter at the barn.

He takes out his knife and begins hacking at the ends of one stick, whittling it into a dangerously sharp point.

He sets that one aside, picks up another and does the same.

The task is repetitive, physical and demanding of no thought.

Perfect for his current mood.

He doesn't know how the hell Lori knew to find him there and her disruption isn't welcome.

"Moving to the suburbs?"

Her attempt at humor falls flat and he continues to slice at the twig in his hands, hoping that by ignoring her, she'd go the hell away.

"Listen," she continues and he kisses another dumb hope goodbye, "Beth's in some kind of catatonic shock. We need Hershel."

"Yeah," he grunts, inspecting the point and whittling it down more. "So what?"

"So I need you to run into town real quick and bring him and Rick back," she says, squatting down to his level as she speaks.

He feels her eyes on him and his blade cuts deeper and slices harder at the stick. Everything about his posture is a warning she clearly is incapable of comprehending.

"Daryl," she says with enough concern and command in her tone to draw his gaze.

He stops his hands long enough to shoot her a glare, trying to warn her off before he got to saying his piece.

"Your bitch went window shopping," he growls when she just won't stop looking at him with those fucking, pleading eyes. "You want him, fetch him yourself. I got better things to do."

"What's the matter with you? Why would you be so selfish?"

He feels the sudden contempt of her words and gaze and is reminded all to clearly of his fucking place in the group, at least to the thinking of her and the others.

"Selfish," he snorts, pushing angrily to his feet and turning on her. "Listen to me, Olive Oyl, I was out there looking for that little girl every single day. I took a bullet and an arrow in the process. Don't you tell me I've not been getting my hands dirty."

She jumps to her feet and eyes him with caution when he points the tip of his knife in her direction, like he'd bother to cut her.

"You want those two idiots, have a nice ride," he flicks a dismissive hand at her toward town then spins to sit back down. "I'm done looking for people."

He forces his hands to resume hacking at the stick, trying not to flinch under the weight of her stare.

That little boy in him wanted to run off and do her bidding, earn her approval by completing a task she seemed to think would be so easy for him. Toddle off into town and round up her husband and their reluctant host. Risk his fool neck and for what?

So she approves of him. Thanks him. Asks him to do more stupid shit like her new lapdog.

Woman had enough of them with Rick and Shane both falling over one another for her and Glenn going off on her errands 'cause the kid just wanted to keep the camp happy.

Bout time her scrawny ass wanted something enough to go get it herself.

He just couldn't do it right now.

She finally stops staring at him and turns to walk away and he carves another sliver of wood away then pauses to stare after her.

He wonders if she'll actually do it.

Wonders if she'll be ok going into town or not.

Then he thinks of Carol, sitting and basking in the attentions of Officer Shane fucking Walsh, while all the fucking thanks she gave Daryl was a cold shoulder.

It wasn't worth his neck to worry about these women. They'd made it clear enough and Merle had tried to warn him of it weeks ago when they fell in with the group at the quarry.

_Gotta look after numero uno, baby brother. Can't let all these strangers fool you into thinking the world suddenly gives a damn about a Dixon._


	3. Chapter 3

Daryl returns to the camp with his bundle of sticks and finds the place empty.

He goes to his tent to deposit the roughly hewn, soon-to-be arrows then looks around the site curiously.

He is as he feels at the moment; alone among them all.

He wanders toward the main house and isn't surprised to find them all bustling about the place. Making themselves right at home in Hershel's absence.

He shakes his head at them all, likening their behavior to locusts.

He isn't about to join them in that place. He'd been treated to the Greene hospitality when he'd gotten busted up in searching for Sophia. Those hours while the vet sewed him up and Daryl had rested had been more than enough to suit him. The home was too clean and organized; the occupants too quiet and pious. Daryl had been glad to return to the hard earth beneath his tent, despite the fresh wounds.

He'll be glad to return there again now.

If they didn't care to have anyone watching the camp while they played house, so be it.

He packs his things with speed and ease, well used to getting gone quickly. The tent is a simple, cheap structure and it collapses with the removal of the poles. He breaks the poles down to fold them for the move then focuses on flattening the canvas out to roll it up.

His bundles are bulky but he straps them down as best he can on the back of the Triumph. This is the only trip he wants to make and he wants nothing left behind.

He swings his leg over the gas tank and settles familiarly into the seat of the bike.

Before starting it, he looks around once more.

His eyes squint in the setting sunlight, surveying this place. He's quick with the packing, having gone through the motions countless times in his life, but it's still a process that had taken some time yet no one had come to try stopping him as he did it. Not a creature was stirring up in that house, least none that seemed to give a damn about him.

He starts the engine with a snort of self-disgust and looks down the road with some serious consideration. He can't bring himself to turn the machine in that direction, though, and Merle ridicules him for that.

He guides the bike over the fields until he's back at the old homestead. Despite Lori's earlier disruption of his isolation, this place still called to him; calmed him. It would make a good campsite for him.

He parks the motorcycle and unloads it with quick movements. The tent is erected as quickly as he had dismantled it and he tosses his things inside to sort out later.

He pulls out the sticks he had whittled and takes a few moments to cut them down; shortening their lengths so they would fit into the groove of his crossbow. He yanks out the bolt already loaded in the weapon, clips it into the quiver attached to the stock and then reloads it with a wooden projectile.

With the fading daylight, he returns to the woods. He hadn't checked his snares in a day or so and he'd need food.

It would also give him an opportunity to test the combination of handmade and manufactured weaponry. He'd made bows and arrows in the field before and used store bought arrows with his handmade bows, but he'd never bothered to try stick bolts in the Scout; hadn't felt a need for that kind of experiment before.

He finds a rabbit in one snare and calls it a good day after taking out three squirrels with his new arrows. He has to remind himself that he's hunting only for himself as he adds the third squirrel to his collection. What he has is more than he needs, but he's spent so many days in the woods gathering meat for a whole camp that it's hard not to keep going.

Hard not to think of those kids looking to their parents for another bite of food that wasn't there; no matter that it'd been weeks since any kid but Carl sat around the campfire.

Wasn't his damned job to provide for any of them; to care for them, but he had. For all the good it'd done that little girl.

He collects wood from the forest floor as he ambles back to his camp, feeling the coming chill of night in the air and wanting fire to warn it off.

Once back at the homestead, he dumps the kindling on the ground best suited for a firepit then untucks his haul from his waistband to deposit the rabbit and squirrels on a brick to be cleaned for eating later. He digs a slight dip into the ground then sets a ring of stone around it, using fallen pieces of the chimney for the task.

Next he assembles a portion of his timber collection for the best starter to his campfire. He gets the fire started the old-fashioned way; by drilling a spindle of wood into a fire board of dried branch until an ember catches to set fire to the nest of dried leaves and bark he'd made.

It takes him several minutes of rapid rolling of the spindle in his hands before the friction is enough to create that ember, but the time passes quickly as his mind slips back to the long ago memory of his grandpap teaching him this manly method in his childhood. When the first flame flares from his efforts he smiles and images he once again feels the proud clap of that old man's hand on his back.

It wasn't often he thought of the codger, given that the man had passed on when Daryl was only eight years old, but whenever Daryl did remember his father's father it pained him. He'd been a good old man; done more to raise the Dixon boys than their parents had. Daryl had long ago stopped mourning the loss and it did no damned good to wonder the what ifs that the man had lived longer, but on a night like this he can't help but think how his world had gone to shit after that.

Merle'd gotten more delinquent in his behavior and their dad had gone deeper into the bottle rather than try to be a damned father, leaving Daryl to take what his grandfather had taught and start putting it to immediate use to survive.

He watches his flame grow to spread over and catch on the smaller twigs to set fire to the bark of the thicker bits of branch in the pit. The dancing flames are hypnotic as they grow bigger and brighter; start to create warmth that he can feel on the palms of his hands as they hover over the growing fire.

This is more familiar to his past; surviving on his own and seeing only to his own needs.

It's what his childhood had prepared him for and what his life kept coming to.

Not a damned thing worth getting choked up over and certainly not a damned time or reason to feel lonely.

The world sucked, he's been over that since his dad kicked him out of bed that morning over thirty years ago and told him to go start cleaning Percy's room.

"_Old bastard won't need it anymore," his father had laughed, "looks like he finally croaked in his sleep."_

Daryl had hated his parent with a vengeance in that moment when the words sank in, but he'd stifled it to obey the order.

He'd gone into that bedroom to find the man still lying in his bed.

It'd been the first human he'd seen dead and it had struck him how peaceful the old guy had looked. Could've been sleeping for Daryl had known, but gramps hadn't woken no matter how much the boy tried to bring him awake.

The paramedics had arrived shortly after that and had had the sense to get a child away from the traumatizing sight of his dead relative.

He'd hardened his heart after that when the only sympathy the man's passing had gotten was whispered comments from the medics on how lucky the guy had been to die in his sleep.

It'd taken Daryl years of seeing prolonged and bloody death to realize that those EMTs had been right.

Dying peaceful in one's sleep was a luxury few received.

He knows that to be truer now than it had ever been then.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl turns his attention to settling in once the fire is blazing nicely to dispel the growing darkness.

He slips inside his tent to unroll his sleeping bag on the ride side of the shelter then arranges his things to the left.

There's precious little aside from his weapons, but a means of protection is more valuable now than cash ever had been and he's proud of the knives he'd collected.

He'll likely regret the lack of more clothing as winter bears down on them like the bitch it tended to be, but he's gone cold before. Might should have left the sleeves on more of his shirts, but the summers were so frickin' hot in this place he felt suffocated in long sleeves.

He plucks a stiletto from the collection and snaps the blade out with a practiced flick of his wrist. His fingers test the edge and tip for sharpness; finding it suitable for his purposes. With ease he presses the release to unlock the blade so that it folds back into the handle then tucks it into his pants pocket for the time being.

The crossbow he places right inside the tent flap, retiring it for the night in favor of his buck knife to handle any visitors he might get.

He stoops to rifle through his knapsack for his rope. It was a bitch to lug around at times and he often wonders why he bothered, but any time he thinks of leaving that particular supply behind something happens to prove its usefulness. It'll serve as a perimeter guard for his camp as well as a place to hang his kill after a hunt.

He moves to string it up between a pair of trees and hooks the bushy tails of the squirrels to the line. He leaves the rabbit on its chopping block then digs out the stiletto to place on the brick beside his intended dinner.

His collection of twigs and branches is lacking anything suitable for a proper spit to roast the meat on and he'll need to forage around some more to fix that.

Not all that hungry at the moment, he settles back down beside the fire to stoke the flames with a stick. He gets lost in the warming, hypnotic dance of the fire as it consumes the pile of wood he'd set alight.

Playing with fire is something he'd always been a fan of.

He shoves the stick harder into a burning ember as the sound of rushing, not quite running, footsteps reaches his ears.

"We can't find Lori," Carol announces with a brand new set of matches for him, "and the others aren't back yet either."

He blames the glow of his pretty little fire for how she had found him and jabs viciously at another burning chunk of wood.

"That dumb bitch must've gone out there looking for 'em," he's too surprised to worry about the woman.

"What?" he hears the surprise and judgment in Carol's tone; doesn't need to look to confirm her criticism.

He jabs harder at the burning embers and curls his shoulder away from the weight of her stare.

"Yeah, she asked me to go," he looks because he feels her fucking staring at him and finds her eyes disbelieving. "Told her I was done being an errand boy."

"And you didn't say anything?"

_Whoops, _his hands slowly stop thrusting the stick in the fire as he considers that he could have said something to someone.

Then he considers how _someone_ could have been at the campsite to say _something_ to him to prevent his pulling up stakes, but the coulda, woulda, shouldas of life were the bane of his existence. It's a waste of time and energy to call on an emotion like regret to weigh him down.

The breeze shifts to blow smoke into his face and he blinks away the dry burn on his eyeballs.

She's waiting for him to say something now, but he ain't got shit.

She _wants_ him to say something now, but he's got no idea what she expects from him and he's had just about enough of getting all twisted up inside over this one.

He remains silent and focused on the fire.

When he moves to poke it again with his stick her eyes finally move away from his slouching back and he hears her sigh of disappointment.

His tongue itches to make some quip to welcome her to the real world so full of disappointments when you looked to another person for answers. He keeps the thought inside, though, knowing the scene could turn ugly quick.

Too many issues under the surface tearing to be brought out of the darkness within to spread their venom on the world that destroyed and hurt so fucking much.

She stomps away and he lets out a breath he hadn't even consciously held.

Being near her did that to him anymore; messed with his heartbeat and breathing and he needs space to get himself back under control. Get her out of his head so he doesn't care anymore if she hurts, emotionally or physically.

It was never his place to care and, clearly, it never will be. And that's all the better for him.

He doesn't need her. He doesn't want any of them weighing him down with the time came to fight for his own life.

_He doesn't care._

And if he tells himself that often enough while alone at this little camp of his then maybe it will become true.

"Don't do this," Carol comes back to stand over him while he's distracted by those damned thoughts. "Please," he flinches at that word like it had ever meant a damn to ask nicely. "I've already lost my girl."

"Yeah," he jams the stick at the ground before throwing it aside to stand, "that wasn't my problem neither."

He glares on his way around her before stalking off into the woods to get the hell away from those damned eyes she had.

_What the fuck does that even mean_, he bristles with the want to have asked the question instead of storming off. That implication again that _he's _something to her; same as she had said to him in the stable. Like _he's_ her _what_?

_What the hell did the woman want from him? Expect of him?_

He's been trying to figure it out since she kissed his injured forehead like she cared and wanted to heal him of the hurt.

Just as he's been trying to figure out what he wanted from her since the moment he'd seen that Cherokee rose, thought of her blue eyes wet with tears and cut the bloom away from the bush without a care for the thorns that had pricked his skin.

The answers don't magically come to him and he slams a fist into the trunk of a nearby tree for the gift of pain to obliterate his thoughts.

He pulls back and flexes his fingers, feeling flecks of bark in the cuts on his knuckles. The sting of torn flesh is familiar; as oddly comforting as the swelling he knows will come around the joints from the impact of his punch.

Breathing deeply he focuses on the physical twinges and turns his attention to the ground to find a branch or two suitable for making a campfire spit for his dinner. He finds a good one with a solid Y shape and settles on it along with a good, straight stick to spear the meat with.

Carol's gone when he gets back to the campfire, which is what he wants.

Her gone from his camp; his head.

_His stupid heart._

He can't bring himself to think of her gone from his life because that sure as shit would happen sooner or later and he isn't about to tempt fates by thinking a thought that brings the end on sooner.

He'd tried the believing shit; the thinking that there was a chance of any other fate when Sophia went missing and all that his attempts at Zen had gotten him was a kick in the fucking teeth that he really hadn't been prepared for when the girl turned up undead.

They would all end up dead eventually in all of this, not that that was a truth exclusive to this new zombie filled world. Used to be the only things certain in life were death and taxes, all the end of the world has changed was that people weren't paying their government at the moment. Which leaves death as the only certainty they have left; the only choice they got was how bloody the end would be.

Daryl isn't about to let a single bite take him out like it had Jim or that little girl.

If the zombies wanted him then they'd have to rip him to fucking shreds just to get him to stop killing as many of their kind as he could on his way down.

He focuses on that thought; that determination that has gotten him to this point alive.

He plants the branch in the dirt beside the campfire then moves to skin and clean out the rabbit carcass. He skewers the meat on the stake and props the stick in the planted Y to roast the rabbit over the flames.

Simple tasks take minimal thought and exertion but make the difference between life and death.

A guy like Rick gets caught up in the big picture of it all, trying to sort out ways and means for the lot of them. Daryl knows that sometimes one has to just concentrate on the little things like setting up his camp and cooking his dinner. Watching the meat cook and occasionally rolling the stick to expose a different portion to the heat keeps his focus ahead of him so he's not tempted to look around at all the people not gathered around his solitary fire.

The worst thing to have come from all of this wasn't his losing Merle and the last of any so called family he'd ever had.

The worst is his having found a group of people that he would fight and die for, like family was supposed to; without any of them realizing it or seeing how damned hard it is for him to accept how far inside they'd all gotten.


End file.
